Loyal Slough
Loyal Slough
I am not a tree, revered even by the weeds
That shriveled trunk, still caressing the shackles of its roots
Devouring deeper, roots or iron chains weaved in greed they are
Yet the tree stands, sways, fanning the air around
And they write verses about the breeze, the breeze and its lilting melancholy.
I am merely but a voracious mind
Sculpted by brick and mortar and kneaded in mammoth vanity
Peeling myself to appear enticing in every eyes, in every eclipse
While my loyal slough lies withered on the frigid path called 'Conscience'.